The next morning . . .
Sir Integral Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing and her mysterious gentleman friend were the talk of London's upper echelon. A few passersby had caught glimpses of the dark shapes twirling in the darkness. One even swore he saw the two lock in a passionate kiss before simply disappearing into the fog; however, his account also included being chased a six-eyed hellhound, so most chalked his tale up to excessive imbibing. None dared make mention of even witnessing the event to her. None dared incite her wrath. Fortunately for them, she was too preoccupied with troubles of her own to be anything but ignorant of the gossip.
Integra bit her lip and tried to concentrate on the daunting pile of papers before her—invoices, mission reports, acquisitions, transfer requests all requiring her immediate and undivided attention; none of which were receiving it. The chill in that drafty office; on the other hand, had her undivided attention. It enveloped her, caressing her through the smooth wool of her suit like a pair of frozen, undead hands.
Slumping in her chair, she lit a cigarillo and took a long, slow drag as she looked at the portrait of her father hanging on the far wall, staring at her condescendingly. Integra knew that she was not without weaknesses. She liked to smoke. She enjoyed the occasional drink. Sometimes, she relished the fact that people feared her foul temper.
And then, there was Alucard.
It was no secret that the creature had rather strong feelings for her; lust more than anything else. He got off on her orders, deliberately undermining her authority and questioning her resolve, all to hear her speak the words again—passionate words that condemned her enemies to death; words that unleashed the vampire's madness onto an unsuspecting world. All the death, all the destruction—it was all for her. He never let her forget it.
As much as it disgusted her, she was drawn to the carnage. She wanted to see her foes cower in wide-eyed terror as he ripped their bodies asunder with naught but his bare hands. She wanted the trophies of his triumph displayed for all the world to see; a sea of mutilated corpses impaled across a battlefield shrouded in smoke and flame, and her servant kneeling before her, just smiling . . . always smiling, knowing how much his work pleased her.
It was all too easy to get lost in that vast darkness.
A shiver ran through her. She chose to blame it on the cold air rather than the memory of soft lips against her neck.
Father is surely spinning in his grave.
It was all a mistake—every moment after she allowed him to, literally, carry her away from that balcony. She thought she was strong enough to not be swayed by the allure of sweet nothings whispered in her ear by smooth-talking vampires. Apparently, even she was fallible.
It would never happen again.
"You concern yourself too much with the opinions of the dead."
"Then I shan't concern myself with yours."
"How cruel," he replied, lips turning up into a smirk.
He stalked across the room and took a seat on the edge of her desk. She turned her head, pretending to concentrate on the massive stack of papers before her, ever the picture of cool collectedness. Even without looking, she knew he was watching her, hunting her, piercing crimson eyes boring holes into her very soul.
"Alucard, what do you want?" she bit, more harshly than she intended.
"What's wrong, Integra?" he replied coyly. "You rather enjoyed my company last night."
Integra clenched her jaw as she felt her face grow flush. "Don't you see that I'm busy? Now, go away. I have work to do."
He vanished, but she still felt his presence lurking in the room, staring at her, mocking her with that insolent smirk; that Cheshire grin full of madness, arrogance and strange charm, in its own frightening way.
Maniacal laughter filled the expansive space. "Lie to yourself all you want, Integra. You know you can't stop thinking about it. You want me to touch you. You want me inside you, making you come over and over and over again. You want this manor filled with the sounds of your screams."
The disembodied voice paused. "There is one thing I'm simply dying to know."
She slammed her hand into the firm oak of the desk, smashing the pen she had been holding in two. "What?"
Integra jumped in her seat as the midian suddenly rematerialized before her, his long body, leaning over her desk; his face barely inches away from hers. "Does your blood boil that much when I lay the bodies of your enemies at your feet? Do you crave the carnage as much as you apparently crave me?"
A loud crack thundered through the room as Integra's hand collided with the face of the vampire. He raised a hand to his cheek, slightly shocked and greatly amused by the fact she had the gall to strike him.
"Get out," she hissed through clenched teeth.
"Marvelous! Simply marvelous!" He laughed like a madman; his dark, riotous cackling sending chills coursing down her spine. "Integra, you should have let me turn you last night. What a vampire you would have been."
"GET OUT!"
"As you wish, my master," he said, bowing as he stepped away from the angry woman. "I shall leave you to your thoughts. Just don't fool yourself into thinking that you can fight this craving forever."
He paused before phasing through the wall. "You are the great Sir Integral Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing. You always get what you want. When you're no longer in denial about this, let me know. You know where I'll be."
He was long gone by the time the silver letter opener embedded itself in the wall.